Don't Need to Ask Nicely
by Funny Edo Bean
Summary: Atlas knows good and well when he needs to use "Would you kindly?" This isn't one of those times. Atlas/Jack, M for sexuality.


I bloody well know when to take control in a situation, and in this case, it's just not necessary. Poor old boy-o, he trusts me a little too well.

And there, he's rubbing off on me as well. I'm even thinking as Atlas, thinking with that insufferable accent. For the first time in a long time, I want to live up to the reputation Atlas built. I do have to admit, that back when I was setting this all up, I never wanted it to come to this. I wanted to be the hero everyone needed to stop pushing Ryan's brooms and demand the treatment promised when they first came to rapture. I never wanted to use Jack. Even I can believe in the innocence of an unborn child.

Even if the kid is Ryan's. But hey, it had to be done. Anything to take down a tyrant.

There I go again. I can't believe the effect this kid has on me. Swear to God if the puppydog way he follows my commands makes me want a little truth behind those words. Suddenly, Frank Fontaine, con expert don't sound quite so fine as Atlas, savior of the wretched vermin of an underwater town no one even knows to exist.

But it does have a certain ring to it, don't it?

And then, here he comes, poor kid. I know he had to fight off at least one Big Daddy on the way. But he has free will, at least in this case, because the words 'Would you kindly…?' never did pass my lips.

I have a feeling they might be necessary in the near future, however. Whether I aspire to be something more at the moment or not, I will always know how to manipulate someone, and in his case, it's especially easy. I've got a whiskey flask in hand and I'm putting on my best 'I'm still in shock that my family is dead now, but bloody hell if I'm not angry too, I want that bastard Ryan dead' face just as I hear his footfalls outside the door.

There was no one in that damn sub. And I think, deep down he knows it. So I've got to make my move before he can make up his own mind about things. Before he starts to rub off on me more.

The door swishes open and closed again, and he's looking at me, a little drawn back. He wasn't expecting whatever it is he's seeing ,the younger man, mid thirties with blonde hair and brown eyes, no sir. Someone older, perhaps. Someone with red hair, certainly. And I'm not bragging when I say that I'm attractive, but he seems to notice that too.

I smile wryly and raise an eyebrow 'I wonder how good old Ryan would feel about his own son being a queer…'

"Jack. Good to see ya boy-o. I thought it'd be important to ask you this in person."

"I-I'm sorry, Atlas. About your family."

"Ah." I try to look pained, then I swallow and grin. "They're gone, boy-o. Nothing can be done about it now. This place, otherwise, is a lost cause. We gotta get are bloody arses outta here, 'm I right? But first, we gotta take out that bastard Ryan, so's it doesn't keep going on like this."

"What do I need to do? I know I have to kill him, but—"

"Ah, not so quick there, boy-o." We'll get him all in good time, but first" I take a swig from the flask "I figure you might wanna have a bit of fun first."

"There's fun to be had in Rapture?" The kid actually chuckles and I'm damnably relieved that he still knows how to smile.

"If you got someone who knows the ropes. And that someone would be me."

"I've seen posters of you, all over this place. Why are people looking for you?"

"Ah…well." I uncross my legs and stand up from the desk I was sitting on "I've been trying to take Ryan down for a while now. He's been trying to keep me quiet. But we can discuss that in more detail later. Right now I need you to come here."

He hesitates. For the first time, I see his scars, one above his right eye, one on his neck, dipping into his collared shirt, and I think he's too young to have fought so hard. But that's why I had done to him what needed to be done. He's mine, and he turned out well, for sure. Got his mother's looks , but father's eye and hair color. I look at the chains on his wrists, the tattoos. I look at the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. He steps closer, and again, standing against me know. He knows what I want and I don't have to say a thing. His pants soak the water of genetic failure, of death into mine, and I know he's suffering silently.

He's on his knees before I can open my mouth, his hands down my pants, shoving my boxers roughly aside. Again he knows what I want without me having to say a word. He's playing right into my hands again, and I swallow and push aside the lump of guilt that comes with that knowledge, along with another swig of whiskey.

I'm hard in his hand, the other hand prods and kneads my balls, and I don't have a clue where he learned all this so fast. I try to think, but his mouth descends next, lips, tongue, teeth nipping at the slit, and I'm being swallowed, and fuck, but I can't think clear any more, I'm just backed into the desk again, hands gripping the edges as I thrust into his mouth.

Then I wonder if Ryan knows. He's got cameras everywhere, so he probably does. He's probably watching his own son suck me dry, and the poor bastard is probably getting off on it too. They say things like this run in the family, after all.

And, then. God. If this kid doesn't fucking know what he's doing. It ain't his first time at the rodeo, that's for sure, his head's bobbing expertly and he doesn't choke. He rolls his eyes up to look at me and I cringe, and I moan. I can't fucking control myself. Suddenly, I want. I want to be all that this kid believes I am, I want to just steal him away from this, get the fuck out of this place and just hide, run away from Rapture and let him do this to me every night, but just as I come to my senses, his hand leaves my sac. I only realize he's taken it to himself when I feel him moan around me.

And that, of course, is when I fucking lose it. I thrust into his mouth, I know I'm bruising it but I don't fucking care, I just want to come, I want him to bring me off so he can get himself off so we can both leave and I can clear my head. The flask turned over beside me, my left hand sits in a puddle of whiskey. He groans again, I come, he swallows. And I'll be damned if what I cry out when I come isn't 'Boy-o' but I'm leaning against the desk still, my limp, wet cock pressing into his cheek, whiskey seeping into my pant leg as he pumps himself. I can't stop staring, and when he rolls his eyes up to mine again, I murmur his name and he pants harder, begins thrusting into his hand, and with a broken cry of 'Atlas!' he comes too. Spills all over the hardwood between my feet.

This is what I wanted. Why, all of a sudden, then, do I feel like scum?

"Would you kindly…" I breathe "Clean up after yourself and then get back to business? We got a murdering tyrant to assassinate, boy-o."

He grins, strangely and I have the feeling I won't be saying 'Boy-o' as frequently.

Then, like the obedient dog that he is, he leans over, and begins licking his own cum from the floor as I step around him and to the door. "See ya around kid. Good luck to you."

The con man in me has taken over again, so he'll need all the luck he can get.

Atlas don't have such a ring to it after all. And I got a job to finish.


End file.
